Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 31
The FBI puts me up in a vacant condo, but the news vans still find me. They set up on my block every morning for two weeks before giving up. Everywhere I go, reporters give chase. I don’t take it personally.
My cell will ring endlessly if I leave it on, so I use burners. I’ve had to memorize phone numbers for the first time since I was a kid. Whenever I go anywhere, a motorcade escorts me.
Most days I stay home, talking to investigators or lawyers for hours via the web. It’s exhausting.
I don’t get to really relax until nearly a month has gone by, and the FBI clears my friends of any wrongdoing, and allows them to visit.
I’m already crying when I open the door for John. I hug him tightly, picking up a tobacco reek in his clothes.
“You started smoking cigarettes again?” I ask, though I don’t know why. He’s been cut out of my life for months, forced to watch from the sidelines as I was sucked into a vortex of chaos, and that’s the first thing I think to say to him? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I’ll quit them again, I promise,” he says, rubbing my back. When he lets me go, his eyes glisten. “Kate, I wanted to help you. No one would let me. The people around you said you didn’t want to see me. They threatened to fire me if I tried to get close. I tried to find out why you were doing what you were doing — your guards, your producers — they shut me out. Told me to stay away or you’d file a restraining order. I tried reaching out to Brendan, and he said the same thing.”
I shake my head, jaw hanging open. Tears drip down to the floor.
“I’m so sorry, John. I had no choice. I had to keep you away, for your own good. It killed me, but if anything happened to you… I knew you wanted to help. I never doubted it.”
He nods, pulling me into another hug.
“When they told me about the Masters and Anton Ford and everything, it all made sense. Anton’s lucky to be dead, because I would have ripped his head off for what he did.”
Smiling, I let out a throaty laugh.
“I would have enjoyed seeing that.”
The elevator doors open behind us, and Brendan steps out carrying two massive bags of Thai food.
“Come in,” I say to John. “We’ll tell you everything, from the beginning.”
It’s a good thing Brendan brought a feast. This could take a while.
—
“Tell me about your week,” says Dr. Kerri Davis. “What’s new?”
It’s been six months since I started seeing her. I have little more to say. She’s heard every single detail from the day of my abduction until the day Anton Ford died. She’s heard the stuff that came before: about my famous father, my problematic early behavior and my lifelong tendency toward recklessness. By now she knows me pretty well, but I’d rather be talking to Brendan or John. They don’t get paid to listen and they’re not sharing our conversations with the authorities.
Not that I have a choice. A judge mandated that I see her twice a week as a condition of my release. Apparently she’s dealt with unique cases in the past. They say she can help me. So far, I guess I can’t complain. She’s a good listener, and she doesn’t question my love for Ingram. She believes my side of the story.
“They finished fixing my apartment,” I say. “I moved in a few days ago. So that’s new. And old, I guess. You know what I mean.”
“What was that like, being back there?” Davis asks.
“It was nice.”
I debated getting a new apartment. Some questioned the idea of returning to a place that was my prison for months. They made a good point, but this was my home before it was my prison, and I wasn’t going to let Anton take it from me. The FBI took most of the stuff that made it a prison anyway, from the surveillance equipment to the cage machinery. I hired a crew to do the rest, restoring it to the old schematics and decor.
“It wasn’t unsettling, or scary?”
“Not really. No one’s coming after me. I don’t have to worry about myself anymore. If anything, it was satisfying.”
“Oh?”
I nod.
“I’d like to think of how angry Anton would be, seeing me sleep in my own bed, free of him. I remember the Masters can’t hurt me.”
“That’s good,” says Dr. Davis. “A very healthy outlook.”
“It was still somber, though. Maybe a little unsettling, I guess. I shouldn’t have made it exactly like it used to be. I can wake up in the morning and see all of my old furniture, see all of my old appliances, all of my old toiletries and grocery brands, and it’s almost like I never left. I could almost pretend that year was a dream, for a while. That’s probably not healthy.”
Davis grins.
“You know otherwise. You’re not deluding yourself. That’s what matters.”
I pour myself a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the coffee table in front of me.
“Do you think it’s weird I went back there instead of finding a new home?” I ask.
Not that she would ever call it weird, but she must know what I mean.
“I think it’s completely understandable, Kate. Reclaiming your old life was the goal. This is a tangible part of it, one that’s a good starting point for what comes next.”
I nod, taking a deep breath.
The conversation had to get here eventually. The last few sessions, I put it off. Dr. Davis let me. But, there’s no sense delaying any longer.
“Going back to work,” I say, finishing her thought.
“How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why’s that, Kate?”
I lean back into the soft couch cushions and stare up at the ceiling.
“It’s a lot of things, all at once. Excitement. Terror. Pride. Resentment.”
Dr. Davis nods.
“That’s a lot to unpack. Take me through it.”
Sipping my water helps settle the tremor in my stomach.
“When I was with Ingram, I told him how what I really wanted was to be a reporter again. I wanted to clear my name, salvage my reputation and keep doing what I love. So, it’s great to be diving back in, even if it isn’t the same. You know what I mean?”
She nods.
“And the terror?”
I could probably spend an entire session on that.
“When I first started my career, people treated me like a dilettante — like I was walking around in Daddy’s shoes and they were way too big for my feet. It pissed me off, but I accepted it. I spent years proving myself, but the whole time, I always knew where I stood. Now, I have no idea what people are going to think of me. Will they pity me or hate me? Will they trust me, or despise me? Will they see past what I went through, or am I always going to be reporting from a ‘certain perspective?’ It’s so much uncertainty. I just want to report. My history shouldn’t be a factor.”
“You overcame people’s doubts once before, Kate. You can do it again,” Dr. Davis says. “Your story is far from over.”
“Thanks. But what if people won’t forgive me for lying to them? What if they don’t accept that it was all made up? Millions of people tuned in to Kate Atwood Live. They ate it up. They have a right to be pissed. And that’s to say nothing of the fallout from the Masters.”
“True. That’s only temporary, though. The world is still reeling. More of the Masters’ accomplices keep getting arrested every day, so it’s still in the news. But that won’t go on forever.”
“Yes, it will. The congressional hearings for testimony of the survivors are nearly finished, but the lawsuits are going to take decades. There will be news about the Masters for the foreseeable future.”
“Not on the front pages,” Dr. Davis argues. “The world will move on. Some new story always takes people’s interests.”
Is that supposed to make me feel better? I want people to remember what happened, to know how easily they were taken advantage of and lied to. Others could go through what I did if we fail to learn from the past.
“And you don’t have to be the one reporting on those lawsuits,” Dr. Davis adds. “There are other reporters out there.”
“When they no longer need me to cover the story, I’ll stop,” I say.
“As long as that’s your choice, Kate.”
I shake my head.
“It’s my duty. I think you know what that’s like.”
Dr. Davis nods.
“Yes, I do.”
—
“Are you ready?” John asks.
“Doesn’t really matter,” I say.
“Of course it matters,” says Brendan. “You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to. They’ll understand.”
They mean well. They don’t know what it’s like to have to face something so mundane and find it so challenging. It’s been six months. It’s time to get my life back.
“Everyone’s here. I need to do this,” I say. “Let’s go.”
John gets out of the cab first, checks up and down the street, then motions for me to follow. He and Brendan stay at my side as we head into The Tap, a dark and musty neighborhood dive bar in the Village.
I go in first; when I do, the conversations inside stop. Everyone turns to me.
They applaud.
John rented the entire bar for a private party. All of LPN’s reporters and several members of the editorial board have gathered, ostensibly in my honor. If this were an office event attended by hundreds, I’d write it off as employees claiming some free drinks. However, I think those present are serious. The way they’re looking at me now, the way they’re clapping — slow and somber, the way one might applaud the spouse of a fallen soldier — it feels real. I nod to them, a hand over my heart.
After a protracted period of applause, they quiet down, going silent and watching me, waiting.
They expect me to speak. I hadn’t planned on giving a speech. It’s not that I’m nervous; I’ve gone through too much to let that be an issue. But what can I possibly say that encompasses everything I’ve felt and experienced?
“I know there are people who thought the worst of me,” I begin. “And there are some who never quite believed what they saw on TV. I don’t care about which side you fell on before. You’ve all been here for me these past six months without judgment. You’ve helped me take my life back, and you’ve accepted me. I can’t thank you all enough for that. I’m sure that if he were here, my father would want to thank you as well — and that he would be very proud of all of you. I know together we’re going to continue to do great work.”
They applaud again. When it dies down, John brings me a beer. I reach for it, then pull back.
“Did you want something else?” he asks. “I can get you whatever you like.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, taking the glass. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay, Kate. We all know you’re not really an alcoholic. No one’s going to think you’re falling off the wagon.”
I sigh. It’s one thing to have people know the truth; getting over the lie I had to live won’t be as easy.
Sips of pale beer go down light and smooth. I don’t care what John says; I’m not going to chug or anything. Even if I didn’t care how it would look, I think those days are past. I can control myself now, and if I did want to drink to excess, I’d rather it not be in front of my colleagues.
“You know Walter would be proud,” says John, sitting down with me in a booth. “He never could have done what you’ve done.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
That’s not really saying a lot; he wouldn’t have been in my situation. They would have just killed him and been done with it. Unless…
“John, be honest with me: if a young Jamison Hardt had tried to recruit my father as a Master, to gain a foothold in the media, do you think it would have worked?”
He sets down his glass and stares at me.
“How can you even ask that?”
“Because he wasn’t an investigative reporter, remember?” I say. “He reported the news, but he toed the company line. He enjoyed being wealthy. Maybe he would have been interested in a seat of true power.”
“Not a fucking chance, Kate. Your father cooperated with the network by necessity. If he could have been more like you, he would’ve. That’s why he’d be so proud of you now.”
I smile, taking another sip.
“Thanks, John. That means a lot.”
He nods.
“Have you been out to visit him since you came back?”
“No, not yet.”
“If you want, I could drive us out there sometime.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
—
I’m not surprised to receive the subpoena. It’s not necessary — I would have appeared if they’d asked. Still, I understand them taking the decision out of my hands.
The grand jury hearing all of the details from the Masters case could set a record for the longest convened jury in history when all is said and done. They’ll be impaneled together for years. They’re lucky the Masters are themselves dead, or they’d be a lot busier. They have enough people to prosecute as it is — with one standing out from the rest.
I tell the jury everything about Ingram. I’m under oath, so I can’t leave anything out or alter any facts. There are a million different charges they could level against him. Murder, kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, aggravated assault, fraud, possession of illegal weapons, property destruction… How much of it can be proven, that’s another story — to say nothing of the fact that the Enclave was technically a sovereign nation and fell under its own legal jurisdiction. It’s no wonder so much of the Masters’ business was conducted there.
It takes several days to go through everything; I break down more than once dredging up memories of men like Anton Ford, Victor Sovereign, Sidney Traves and more. I seethe when I tell them about Madeleine’s murder and Bethany’s abuse. I don’t hide my pleasure recalling when I killed Victor Sovereign. And the times I explained how Ingram taught me how to be disciplined I couldn’t mask my rosy cheeks and unconscious squirming.
I’m past the point of embarrassment by now; even in a federal legal proceeding.
“Ms. Atwood, we’ve heard your story,” says the prosecutor, Quinn Nolan, a woman somehow younger than me. “Would you like to conclude with a personal statement?”
“Yes, thank you.” I get up from my seat and look directly at Nolan, rather than the jury. I’ve done my homework; she has her own history with the powerful and corrupt.
“Back when Ingram Dent first liberated me from Anton’s control, the happiness that filled my soul few people can possibly understand.” I narrow my gaze on Nolan. I don’t want to call her out, preferring not to draw attention to the fact she could have recused herself from this case, given her past. “Ingram did for me what no one else on Earth could. But your job is to determine, what does that matter? After a lifetime of serving a cabal of ruthless criminal kingpins, can a man like Ingram Dent be redeemed? Maybe no one can truly answer that question, but I think he can.”
No matter how many times I could have practiced this, I can’t imagine I’ll convince anyone, but I have to try.
“Personally, my past has been well-documented. I’ve been in tabloids long before the Masters invaded my life. I’ve acted recklessly, and nearly suffered serious consequences. Victor Sovereign could have killed me when I first went after him — but I took a risk because I knew I had no choice. My duty to the people and the truth called on me to investigate and see the job through to the end. When Ingram recognized what was the right thing to do, he risked everything to help me. He destroyed his friendships, he put his company in jeopardy and he could have died for me — twice.”
Quinn Nolan’s expression betrays nothing — not sympathy, not disgust, understanding or contempt.
“I’m not going to pretend that I’m the right person to judge whether Ingram has paid for his sins. I know that he has more work to do if he’s to balance the scales of justice, but I think he can do so. If there’s anyone on the planet capable of making sure people like the Masters never hurt others the way they hurt me, it’s Ingram.”
When she’s sure I’m finished, Nolan says, “Thank you, Ms. Atwood. The jury will recess until our next meeting. Thank you, everyone.”
She and I wait for the jurors to leave, but before I can go she sits down next to me.
“Can we talk off the record?” she asks.
“You’re the attorney, Mrs. Nolan.”
“And you’re a reporter, Ms. Atwood.”
What the hell is this?
“Sure,” I reply. “What about?”
“An offer for Mr. Dent that we’re prepared to make.”
“Shouldn’t that be between you and his council?”
“I wanted to be sure you were on board,” Nolan explains. “After hearing your statement, it sounds like you are.”
Interesting.
“What’s the offer?”
“I’m going to tell you something that doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”
Fuck.
“Respectfully, that’s not something I’d normally agree to.”
“Of course,” says Nolan. “But I think you’ll want to. Trust me?”
I guess I have to know.
“Fine.”
“Kate, I’m a part of an organization that could have helped you, had we known where you were or who was responsible. We could use your help, and could help you in turn — and the same goes for Ingram. His skills under our direction could do a lot of good in the world.”
What a surprise.
Ingram is a gun, and they want to be the one to point it.
“What does he get out of this?” I ask.
“He won’t go to trial and likely spend the rest of his life in jail, Kate.”
Ah.
“I think he’ll go for it, Quinn. He wants to make up for his past. I mean it.”
“Good,” she says, getting up. “That’s great news.”
As I stand, I realize my heart’s racing.
This is it. Ingram’s going to get his chance — to right his wrongs, and to be with me. And together, we’re going to bring a lot of bad men to justice.
“Quinn,” I say as we head to the chamber’s exit. “This organization. What’s it called?”